


i won't be home for christmas

by topnewt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Drunk Dialing, Pre-Series, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4517931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topnewt/pseuds/topnewt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And when Sam hears Dean’s voice for the first time in five months saying, “Sam?” in such a way that makes it feel like Sam’s been away for a hundred years and barely a day at the same time, “Dean—Dean, listen, I’m Rudolph,” is what Sam says because he’s wasted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i won't be home for christmas

**Author's Note:**

> title stolen from the blink 182 song. enjoy.

It doesn’t snow in Palo Alto. Sam has gone a lot of Christmases without snow, but he’s never spent it some place where he knew for certain there wouldn’t be snow on the ground when he woke up Christmas morning. So it’s December 24th, and Sam’s looking out the window, up at the sky, and he’s telling it to snow. Just to be contradictory. Because it’s Christmas Eve, and the Stanford dorms are closed for winter break, and so Sam sits alone on a motel bed with his fingers clenched around a bottle of Jack.

Sam is eighteen years old, and it is not the first time he has spent Christmas in a motel room, nor is it the first time he’s downed half a bottle of whiskey all by himself. It is not the first time he has sat on a bed as stiff as this one and wished intensely for something he knew he wouldn’t get, but it is the first Christmas he will spend alone.

Seventeen whole Christmases he has had Dean by his side, and then Sam decided to go to college. He doesn’t regret it, leaving for Stanford, but there are times he wishes he could be like every other college student. He watches other freshmen lug their bags into the back of their parents’ minivans, excited grins on all their bright faces, and he wishes that packing up and heading out for Stanford hadn’t been signing a contract vowing to spend the rest of his days without his brother. His roommate tells him about the ski trip he’ll be taking with his family over break, and Sam is left with the stark, painful reminder of what he had to give up to live a normal life.

Sam’s RA knocks on his door and tells him he has to be out of the dorm before break starts, and his gut twists, his cheeks flush, because he has absolutely nowhere to go.

Sam closes the curtains to block out the multi-colored glare of the holiday lights strung up down each row of rooms. He squeezes his eyes shut and pours a long shot of whiskey down his throat, focusing on the burn and the subsequent buzz fluttering warm in his mind. He lets the feeling of drunkenness wash over him; make his limbs feel loose and the textured ceiling swirl above him.

It makes it harder to think about Dean; harder to think about all the ways he’ll never get to be normal; harder to think about how it was ten years ago today that he took his father’s journal and read about every supernatural thing the man knew. He keeps taking heavy swigs, lets them burn tears into his eyes.

Sam fumbles for the remote and turns on the TV. Whatever cable channel that it was already set to is playing _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer._ Sam watches it sideways, with his head resting on his arm and the bottle cradled in the crevice between his curled-up legs and his abdomen.

“ _Come closer. What do you desire?_ ” the Lion King of recalled toys asks Rudolph and company.

Rudolph snots, “ _Well, we're a couple of misfits from Christmastown, and now we'd like to live here_.”

“ _No, that would not be possible. This island is for toys alone_ ,” the Lion declines rather rudely.

“ _How do you like that? Even among misfits you're a misfit_ ,” that greedy lumberjack dude says, and suddenly Sam is laughing. He’s laughing the bubbly, wheezing, uncontrollable kind of laughter you can only pull off when you’re smashed. If the Jack weren’t a few swallows from being empty, Sam would have spilled it all over the bed in his fit.

He’s sitting up and clutching his chest by the time he’s regained control of himself, but his smile is still lax and easy, and occasional giggles continue to burst from his lips. He takes the near-empty bottle and grips it in both hands just for something to hold on to.

By now, misfit Rudolph is trekking out alone in the snow as Sam, _heh_ , the Snowman narrates:

“ _Well, time passed slowly. Rudolph existed as best he could. The snow monster kept him on the run... but once in a while, he would stop and make a friend or two. But it wouldn’t last long, and Rudolph would be on his own. But during all that time, a strange and wonderful thing was happening. Rudolph was growing up, and growing up made Rudolph realize you can't run away... from your troubles. And pretty soon he knew where he had to go: home._ ”

He turns the volume down and stops paying attention. He’s too drunk and too lonely and his chest hurts from more than just the laughing. It’s Christmas Eve, and he’s completely alone, and he’s a misfit among misfits, and you can’t run away from home when you don’t have one.

Sam takes out his phone and pulls up to the one contact he would never, ever delete. The number is blurring, moving, and unreadable from his drunken eyes, but he knows it’s Dean’s. He knows whose voice he’ll hear when he calls it, whether it’ll be Dean picking up or his voicemail. He hasn’t spoken to Dean in five months—not once since he said his good bye, gave his brother a pat on the shoulder, and tried not to wonder if he’d ever be that close to him again.

He doesn’t know if this is allowed, if it’s against the rules to drunk dial Dean on Christmas Eve. He does it anyway because he’s wasted.

And when Sam hears Dean’s voice for the first time in five months saying, “Sam?” in such a way that makes it feel like Sam’s been away for a hundred years and barely a day at the same time, “Dean—Dean, listen, I’m Rudolph,” is what Sam says because he’s wasted.

“What?” Dean asks.

“I’m Rudolph. Th’ red-nosed reindeer… y’know th’ one.”

Dean scoffs, and Sam is too drunk to tell if it’s from annoyance or amusement. “Are you drunk?”

Sam flops back on the bed and stares at the ugly ceiling. “I’m a misfit among misfits,” he explains, one hand reaching towards the ceiling, grasping at the water stain right over his head.

“Jesus, Sammy, shouldn’t you be at some college Christmas party or something, hitting on girls? Ya know, instead of binge drinking and watching lame Christmas movies?”

Sam giggles and holds his phone even tighter to his face, as if that’ll close the distance between him and Dean. “Nope. Dorm closed f’r break. Ev’rybody’s home.”

Dean is silent for a beat. “Where are you?”

Sam curls up on his side. He’s getting restless, but he’s too drunk to stand up or go anywhere without ending up on the floor. “Holed up in’a motel. Guess th’ college life hasn’ changed me tha’ much, huh?” The whiskey allows for a huff of laughter to punctuate the sentence.

“You’re alone,” Dean says simply, and he sounds sad, which knocks the goofy grin right off Sam’s face.

“Misfit, Dean. Don’ belong anywhere.”

Dean is quiet, and Sam just wants him to say more, say anything. Dean’s voice is Sam’s first memory; the one thing he knew before anything else. Dean talks. Dean talks and he teases and he shouts and he never shuts up; his voice is like a presence of its own, and Sam wants to hear it. If he can’t see his brother, he at least wants to hear him.

“Miss you,” Sam tells Dean, eye closed because the dancing walls are making him nauseas, “I never… never thought about it ’fore I went t’ school—how I don’ really know how t’ talk t’ anyone ‘cept you. I thought it’d be easy. I thought th’ reason I, I never fit in with you and Dad was ‘cause I’m normal. But I don’ fit in here, either.”

“Sam,” Dean sighs, and Sam can picture him wiping a hand down his face, lips tight in a frown. Sam’s hand reaches out in front of him, expecting his fingers to meet that face, as if the picture of Dean behind his eyelids might materialize, might sit right next to Sam and not let him spend Christmas alone.

Sam talks because he feels like he has the obligation, “I like school. I like havin’ a bed. I like… on th’ first day o’ classes ev’ry professor gave us a, a syllabus, so we knew ev’rything—th’ date of, of every exam, n’ ev’rything we’d be studying. I like knowin’ what ’m gonna be doin’ three months from now.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a long time, but Sam can hear him breathing. It’s the most soothing thing he’s heard in five months, and Sam thinks he’d fall asleep a lot easier at night if he could always have the sound of Dean’s breaths to lull him.

“I didn’ run away,” Sam says with the sudden and inexplicable urge to justify, to explain himself to Dean, “It wasn’ ‘bout that—not jus’ that, okay? Y’ ‘ave t’ tell me. Y’ ‘ave t’ tell me y’ understand.”

“I don’t understand a thing about ya, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head even though Dean can’t see him, “Better th‘n anyone. Better th‘n anyone, Dean.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, “Ain’t too much competition there.”

Sam groans as he shifts on the bed, trying to get comfortable with his feet dangling off the end and the phone pressed to his ear. “Miss you,” he says again because he can’t find the words, but these are okay. They’re good enough. “Don’ have anyone here. Made friends, but s’not th’ same.”

“I know,” Dean says softly, and he sounds like he really does, “Why don’t you get some sleep, huh?”

Sam checks the clock. It’s ten past midnight. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“Merry Christmas, Sammy,” Dean says, his voice quiet and rough, and he hangs up. Sam frowns. He wanted to ask Dean if it was snowing where he was.

*

There’s a rough hand on Sam’s shoulder, jerking his body into consciousness, wiping away the blackness of sleep like an eraser across a white board. He squints, lets the smallest amount of light meet his eyes and allow a throbbing ache to burrow in his skull. Sam groans. Then he remembers someone just shook him awake, and adrenaline takes over; he shoots upright, and his arm swings wildly in front of him in a punch.

A fist catches his wrist and holds it in midair as Sam’s lagging mind and eyes catch up with him, and he realizes his brother is standing less than two feet in front of him. His guard falls, and he immediately feels his hangover rush back as if a dam had broken. He represses another groan, but can’t hold in a pained grimace when he says, “Dean?”

Dean shrugs and smirks. “Hey, you gonna be sick? Because I’m not holding your hair back.”

“What are you doing here?” Sam asks, sitting back down on the bed because he really does feel like shit.

Dean shrugs again and raises his eyebrows like he really doesn’t know the answer. “Well, what kinda brother would I be if I let you spend Christmas alone?” he says, a weak tremor in his voice that’s almost undetectable.

“How’d you find me?”

Dean sits, smacks a painful hand on Sam’s shoulder, “Know you better than anyone, don’t I?”

Sam bites out a laugh and holds his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. He hadn’t expected to see Dean today. He hadn’t expected to be a hungover mess the first time he saw Dean since leaving.

“Where’s Dad?” Sam asks, throat tight and body fatigued.

“What is this, Sam, an inquisition?” Dean snaps, and at Sam’s look of incredulity, his tense features smooth over, and he answers, “Oklahoma. We were working separate jobs. I was in Nevada when you called me; thought I’d surprise you. I wasn’t expected a hug or anything, but what’s with the interrogation, man? I don’t even get a hello?”

“Sorry. I’m glad you’re here, Dean,” Sam says to the stained carpet, “I just… need some aspirin.”

The mattress creaks as Dean stands, and Sam listens to him shuffle through his duffle bag. Five months, and nothing has changed, not really. Sam is the same, fundamentally, and Dean will never change. Sam is quick to tell himself he’s grown apart from his brother in the last year or two, but Dean is as much a part of himself as his own right arm. Truth is, he could go thirty years without seeing Dean and still be able to pick out the exact shade of his eyes on a color wheel. That’s just how they are.

A minute later the bed sinks again, and Dean is holding a water bottle and a couple aspirin out for Sam. He takes them with a mumbled, “thanks.”

They sit on the bed in silence for a while. Sam lets the aspirin start to take effect. It should be awkward after half a year without talking, but awkwardness is impossible after the eighteen years prior.

“This is one shitty place to spend Christmas.” Dean states flatly.

Sam nods, “It never snows.”

“There are fuckin’ Christmas lights in the palm trees; what the hell is that about?” Dean continues.

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches in a smile. “The AC is on right now. This room probably doesn’t even have a heater.” he snorts and nods his chin towards the unit under the window.

Dean shakes his head in dissent, “I saw a plastic snowman on someone’s lawn while I was driving around this morning. Almost blew that sorry-ass excuse for a decoration’s head off.”

“You think a fake snowman is bad?” Sam counters, “I bet you every Christmas tree in the city is plastic.”

Dean looks disgusted: face contorted, upper lip sneering, nose scrunched. Sam grins huge at the sight of it, like he did when they were kids, and Dean knew the best way to make Sam smile was to make goofy faces at him.

The grin slides off Sam’s face when Dean’s relaxes. And then they’re just looking at each other. This is weird, sitting in a motel room with his brother. It’s the only normal Sam’s ever known, but it’s weird, right now.

“We never did have a real tree, did we?” Dean wonders, eyebrows drawn together in thought.

“No,” Sam confirms, and it doesn’t make him as sad as he would think.

Seconds tick by. It’s like Sam’s body can’t readapt to the feel of Dean next to him, except it never quite got unaccustomed to it.

“Didn’t get ya anything,” Dean admits, but his tone is more casual than apologetic.

Sam shrugs, “That’s okay.” Wasn’t like he was expecting any gifts.

Sam notices the necklace Dean still has on for the first time, and he wraps his hand around the amulet. His knuckles brush the warmth of Dean’s t-shirt over his chest. Sam lets out a breath he's been holding since September; he's been wondering if Dean took it off after he left.

“Ten years ago, now,” he realizes. The little horns press into his palm.

“Not mad at you for going to college,” Dean professes very quietly.

Sam releases the amulet. “I know,” he tells Dean, meeting his eyes with his own. So impossibly green. Better than snow on Christmas, to see them again.

“You wanna get some breakfast?” Dean suggests, “I passed a Denny’s that looked open on the way here.”

“Sure.” Sam agrees.

*

Sam gets pancakes. Dean flirts with the waitress. He tells Sam he needs a haircut, and a girlfriend, and to stop being such a nerd. He throws a piece of bacon at Sam and says, “Here’s your present!”

They can’t find any place open that will sell booze, so they go back to the motel and watch televised Christmas movies sober. Sam tells Dean about a few of his classes, and Dean tells Sam about a few of his hunts. Sam begs Dean to let him drive the Impala for a while because he misses it. Dean keeps turning the music up louder and Sam doesn’t stop him.

Dean gets himself a room for the night since Sam’s only has one bed. Sam hates sleeping in motel rooms alone.

The next morning, Dean gives Sam a strange smile and a pat on the shoulder. “I had a good Christmas, Sammy,” Dean says more than once, “real good day.” Sam says goodbye, but it doesn’t feel as final as the last one did. Dean doesn’t look as betrayed as he did the last time, either. Dean drives away, Kansas license plates glinting in the brilliant sunlight. The sky is very blue and the grass is very green. It doesn’t snow in Palo Alto.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, thanks for reading this because writing is really hard. i appreciate it.


End file.
